like a coffee stain
by lee lovina
Summary: What he feels isn't meant to be there. / Or Draco, on discovering love at the wrong time. Slight AU.


_Black as night_

_sweet as sin._

* * *

Draco Malfoy.

His name is twisted _(which fits him and his life just fine)_ but his father always tells him he should be proud of it, he should be proud of being a Malfoy, a pureblood. And the way Draco sees it (_as he was taught to see it_) a pureblood could (_should_) do no wrong. A pureblood is a blessing, a gift bestowed to the Wizarding world, and he should act like it.

That was what everybody expected of him, anyway.

[and here we go]

* * *

But, still, everything he does is wrong. He struggles to feel included, to be worthy in everyone's eyes - and yet he's still stuck in the same old rut.

He feels trapped with the rules and limits of his father and everyone else around him, feels suffocated by it, that he just goes along.

[Like he has a choice.]

What else is there to do, anyway?

* * *

Sometimes, though, he is seized with this sudden urge to prove them wrong.

[he's more than petty thinking and being a Malfoy, goddamnit]

He hates it, actually. He grows sick of all the assumptions thought, the whispers passed, the opportunities lost and the decisions made just because he's a Malfoy. Can't he be more than that? Can't he be given the chance? Can't they look past words and stories heard, and see him for himself?

[well, no.]

He decides to make the best out of it. He throws punches, sneers and taunts, mocks and puts everybody down. There's something in the wrong that's horribly satisfying, like he's getting revenge, in a crazy way.

[nobody fucks with a Malfoy]

* * *

Hermione Granger.

He's eleven years old when he meets her. and to be honest, his first thought was:

Well damn if this girl isn't annoying.

She had buck teeth and bushy hair and a bossy voice and had - actually, has - this habit of pushing down facts she's read no one cares about to anyone she's talking to. She excels in every test, knows the right answer to every single fucking question the teacher poses at them and the way she rolls her eyes is just plain irritating.

He wouldn't be able to stand her for more than three minutes, so when he's entered fifth year as a prefect and finds out that he's assigned a partner to be able to handle the work given and all that, he nearly has a heart attack.

Hermione looks at him with distaste as he tries to protest and find words to Professor McGonagall, who just raises her eyebrows.

"It is done, Mr. Malfoy," she cuts in crisply. "Miss Granger is your partner."

She takes her books and sweeps past them.

"I don't want this," he yells loudly after her, glaring at Hermione as he turns back to her, scowling.

"Stop being a stuck-up baby and live with it, then," she snaps, rolling her eyes.

He clenches his jaw.

* * *

They meet up in the Charms corridor at midnight.

"Why are we here, of all places?" she asks. Her loud voice echoes around the empty corridor and he winces. He glares at her and she shoots him a bewildered look.

"Sweet Salazar,_ keep your voice down_," he says, running his hand through his hair. He didn't want to meet up in any public place where anyone could see them, to be honest, and they needed to get on with the project fast. They were simply here to plan.

Hermione's eyebrows rose but she didn't say anything.

Silence.

Draco studies her. She has her arms crossed, one hand clutching several rolls of parchment. She's looking around the place like some tourist, her mouth forming ooh's and ahh's as her eyes travel from the ceiling to the floor.

He sighs loudly. "The project," he prompts her. She goes back to him.

She smiles innocently, taking her time in forming the words. "What about it?"

_Oh my God._

* * *

They decide to meet up at the library instead.

"I'll have the paper you made for our project," she orders simply, holding out her hand.

He raises an eyebrow. "How about no?"

Her eyes narrow. "Give it."

"Get me to," Draco whispers, leaning in and smirking. He just loves playing these games, and the way she actually gives into it.

She slams a hand on his paper on the table, not breaking eye contact, and slid it over to her side of the table. She cocks a triumphant smile and starts reading it, her face actually glowing with pride.

He manages not to smile, her complaints on his "lack of formality" and "awry grammar" lost somewhere in the wind as he chuckles quietly.

* * *

She's different.

He can tell you that.

* * *

[like dismissing a Da Vinci painting as useless and worthless and being forced to look further in and getting a shock when you realize that what your eyes first perceive is a cover-up to what everything actually means.]

* * *

He's late again when he arrives in the library, holding two cups of coffee for them (like she did for him one time) because the night was bound to be long. And Draco was sure Hermione hasn't got any sleep yet. Something to help her perk up and help her to be marginally less angry when he gets there.

When he gets there, though, the coffee isn't necessary anymore.

The moonlight spills out from the huge window to her peaceful, sleeping form. The silver light illuminates her pale, tired face, and he could see, from there, that it would be best to let her get some rest.

He sets the cups gently on the table and takes the seat beside her. Maybe it's best to keep her company. She stirs and grunts before going quiet again. He smiles slightly at that, and reaches out to caress her cheek gently. She looks so vulnerable he almost wants to laugh. He moves a lock of hair away from her face and -

His fingers jerk back as if burned. _What is he doing?_

He hates her; so he shouldn't be doing this. And why is_ he_ touching _her_? He hates way she acts, the way she laughs and how it seems to fill the air. He hates the way she's always trying to save the day, the way she talks, the way she looks at him and has this ever-present warning in her eye that she would surely take him on. He hates the way she never fails in anything, while he's there, _struggling. _He hates it, he hates it most, that like everybody else, she had thought lower of him.

His thoughts are running together, incoherent, and he sucks a breath in while covering his face with his hands. Why do you even bother? he asks himself. What she thinks? How she feels? There was nothing with this girl._Nothing. _Just a stupid Mudblood and her ability to swallow a textbook -

[but sometimes:

when they need to work on a project together set by Professor McGonagall (for prefects, she says, her mouth in a thin line as she explains them being partnered together; Slytherin and Gryffindor, what a shock, when will all the other teachers and Dumbledore give up on trying to make the two Houses be civil to each other?) he would arrive late at the library. he'd search for her and would find her in the same place every time - sitting on the table in the farthest corner nearest to the huge window that overlooks the Quidditch field.

and he would stop.

and he would stare.

he would watch as she dips her quill into her ink bottle and trace forgotten words on a roll of parchment. he couldn't place what held him there, trapped in his place, watching Hermione Granger, of all people,_ write._ but there was something, something in the way she looks so composed, so focused, so precise in her movements that made him feel like a man lost at sea. there was something in the way her long Hogwarts robe sleeves would ride up her arm, exposing smooth, translucent, ivory skin underneath. there was something in the way she bites her lower lip while thinking, the way her fingers curved so gracefully around her quill, spilling out wild thoughts and concepts and dreams on parchment. there was something in the way she would close her eyes and lift her face up, a tiny smile on her lips, letting the golden rays of the sun bathe her face in warm, yellow light and play with the locks of her brown hair, bringing out red and orange and gold. his heart would stop at the sight and he would realize -

she's a wonder, isn't she?

and:

one time, her had forced her to show him her favorite spot in the library, when she told him in passing (well, a reaction to one of his snide comments about her being in the same place and it being her favorite one) that the one next to the huge window overlooking the Quidditch field wasn't it. he had been disappointed and curious, and with nothing else to do with all the snow outside and the particular day being Sunday, they went to the library.

they walked through mazes of shelves and climbed hundreds of ladders, only to come out in the attic. he didn't even bother to raise his eyebrows mockingly.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Hermione whispered.

his eyes turned from the dim light and dusty air that made the place look dreamy and unreal, with a scattered pile of books at the corner and torn curtains to her. Her glazed eyes and pale face, glowing in the moonlight.

she looked unreal herself.

"Beautiful," he agreed.

then:

they're glaring at each other, jaws locked and fists clenched. Hermione is leaning forward against the table, an angry expression twisting her face, and Draco notices, for the first time, the dark circles around her eyes, the tear tracks on her cheeks, and her chapped lips.

and, for some reason. he feels himself deflating.

his glance lands on the cups of coffee she had probably got for both of them, and wondered how the hell she could've carried those up to the library with all the books and papers she was carrying.

[and now he's guilty.]

Hermione pushes away from the table and doesn't bother to clean up the puddle of ink now trickling across the table and dripping on the floor. they just had a fight - a big one, one unlike from the usual bickering they share when working. It was over something stupid - his taunts about her possibly getting a failing O.W.L and him being late (again, though he would never admit that).

he sits there for what seems like forever, trying to work out everything that had just happened and decides that thinking it through sometimes did you no good.

like he has thought, she is at the attic, leaning against the wall, her gaze fixed at the rain and lightning accompanying the raging wind outside. He sets down the forgotten cups of coffee she had brought earlier to their table, and joins her, leaning against the damp wall himself.

he pokes her back.

"Granger."

she doesn't respond.

he pokes her again.

"Granger."

no response.

he grits his teeth.

and again.

"_Granger_."

her head snaps around to face him. "If I say what, would you shut up?"

he shakes his head. "Not likely," he said, smirking at that glare she gives him. He picks up one of the cups. "Coffee?"

her eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Draco couldn't help the little relay lace his heart gave and -

"It'll make you feel better," he insists, pushing the cup at her.

she bites her lip and looks at him in the eyes, and it's too late to avert them. He seems trapped, trapped in those liquid eyes, that are the color of coffee themselves.

[and she is coffee in her own; so bitter at first taste yet leaves a trail of sweetness, scalding yet somewhat addictive, and wakes you up, and forces you to see a whole new world -

and damn it if her presence isn't making him this metaphorical]

she smirks - or is it a smile? - and takes it.

they sit there, quiet, listening to the music made by the rain falling and kissing the ground and the growls of the sky; watching the clouds turn dark to violet to blue, sipping coffee. she finishes her own in such a short amount of time, and Draco notices the change in her expression as she looks down at her cup, almost wistfully.

"Want more?" he asks, awkward in the situation. he could go and get her some. or give her his own. he knows a broken soul when he sees one.

[he's seen the boy in the mirror too many times]

he knows it needs all the help it could get.

she looks up and forces a crooked smile. "It's never enough, is it?"

he has a feeling they weren't talking about coffee anymore, but he understood. he understood it all.

"It never is," he whispers softly.]

He's just lying to himself.

_Again._

But it gives no reason for what he's feeling right now. He can't describe it. Just something that makes him feel guilty and exposed.

[and no, it isn't love or care, sweet circe.]

[at least, he hopes not.]

* * *

[they're drinking coffee again and she's snapping at him for getting a coffee stain on a page of her book and he realizes that would describe what he feels for her. like a coffee stain - persistent and annoying and would definitely ruin something.

and, like a coffee stain it isn't meant to be there either.

andand_and_, like a coffee stain, it needs to be washed out.]

* * *

Their meetings at the library just pass them by.

They bicker, they laugh, they smirk, they tease, they read, they fight and when the work buries them and the world turns their back on them, they spend silent nights drinking coffee in the attic and not sharing anything but understanding each other.

[them, their, they.

that escalated quickly.]

Connecting, if you'd like a cheesier word.

* * *

[another night in the attic and this time she's crying, tears overflowing and trickling down her cheek. she would try to wipe them away but more will just come, and he feels sickened by it. he reaches out to trap her cold hands in his, gripping them tight.]

* * *

Professor McGonagall's projects get less and less, and so does the days [and nights] spent with her.

They finish up one night, and by some unspoken agreement that composed of unfinished cups of coffee, hesitation and stares at each other when they both got up, they go to the attic.

Every step they take rings out with the tone of finality, echoing in the empty library. It eats Draco up, the way each moment passes by clinging to him, but what is there he can do?

They find themselves leaning against the wall again, holding their cups of coffee, taking slow sips to make the night longer. They don't talk, as their custom, but now there's something completely off about it. Something wrong.

But still, they don't say anything.

The time comes when they're both staring at their empty cups, and they both swivel their heads to look at each other.

He doesn't know what happens next; cannot comprehend it, even. There is just... something in the air. Something in the way she gives him a tiny smile, the way the silence throbs hard in his ears.

[or is that his heartbeat?]

Something that makes him lean in and kiss her.

It's like a twist in time. He feels the world spin beneath him, felt himself lose his grip on everything - on himself. He could only sense the warmth and soft of her lips, the way she tastes and smells like coffee and cinnamon, and he realizes that it isn't really love he's feeling for this girl.

It has to be something stronger - a simple four-letter word couldn't take this so many emotions. It isn't love; the feeling of falling through a bottomless pit yet rescued at the same time. It isn't love; the feeling of being lost yet being found. It's like falling down a bottomless pit and just when you think that it's all over you manage to hold on.

Love, to him, is a precise, tangible thing, and everything he feels right now is the opposite. He can't place a finger on it. He can't say what it really is. It's just something, something so complex yet so simple that sends blood rushing to his veins and makes him cup her face with his hands.

But of course, someone has to go back to their senses.

[not him, though.]

Hermione pulls away, the look of shock and bewilderment on her face, chest heaving as she cautiously puts a hand up to her lips. He sits there, breathless himself, mouth agape, trying to form words to explain.

He's found none. What is there to explain anyways?

She composes herself and he waits for the blow to strike. But she simply puts down her hand, takes a breath, and asks, "What now?"

He doesn't know the answer to that.

"Nothing."

He regrets his answer and basically just forces the word out, but it seemed enough. Realization settles in her eyes, and maybe he knows what it is. It's been there. All along.

He stands up and holds out his hand. She blinks and takes it, intertwining her fingers with his. Their grip on each other is tight, so tight that it hurts, but if you were given the moment to hold on before you let go, you have to take advantage of it somehow.

They stop at the doorway of the library, both of them pulling their hands away. He pushes them into his pockets as she ducks her head, and an awkward silence hangs between the two of them. Draco fights the urge to tilt her chin up and kiss her again, because that would only make matters much more worse.

She lifts her head. "Thank you."

He nods. "Thank you, too."

And just like that, they turn around and walk away.

[she's still hermione granger and he's draco malfoy.

a kiss doesn't change that.

that was what she realized.

and, draco thinks, she's right.]

* * *

[he wonders, off-hand, why it's called heartache when every single part of you is broken and hurting.]

* * *

Sixth year.

The pressure is forcing him down to his knees, and he struggles, blood and fire, to stand. He buries his grief and misery to the nearest escape he could get - Pansy Parkinson.

It's passionate kisses and too-tight grips. Every time he turns to her, it's to get away from the anger, from the pain.

He doesn't think it's fair and she knows that, too, but she looks as desperate and as lonely as he is.

[they're both just clutching at the last straw]

* * *

If death and destruction and empty possibilities is what life's made of, why do people bother living?

He asks that question as he goes into the attic, alone, and leans against the damp wall.

It's been a while.

He screws his eyes shut and clenches his fists, pounding his head hard against the wall. He starts to cry and in it he searches for relief that might take the heavy weight off his chest.

As usual, he finds nothing.

[the smell of cinnamon and coffee still hangs in the air]

* * *

Maybe it's because that he's empty now. Maybe it's because he used to be something, someone - when he was with her. Maybe it's because she filled him with hope and dreams.

Maybe it's because his death is here. It's acceptable, that he won't ever be able to fill in to the Dark Lord's orders. He's accepted his death.

All those reasons, one on top of the other, made him grab her in the deserted Charms corridor and though his first instinct was to kiss her, he didn't. Instead, he held her close to his body, feeling her heartbeat against his chest, the way she struggles to get her breath. He tightens his grip, not wanting to let go.

Tears eventually fall from his eyes, and he releases her. She barely has time to open her mouth when he runs off, like a coward that he is, to the boys' bathroom, and cry his heart out to a ghost.

[yeah, he's that desperate.]

* * *

[later, Potter hits him with a Sectusempra spell and when he wakes up in the hospital wing, scars all over his body, he feels like he's seeing himself for the first time.

flawed. cracked.

close to breaking.]

* * *

He watches her watch the world.

It's amazing really, how the two of them can meet each other's eye and look away like nothing has ever happened.

* * *

He's facing the Dark Lord in the Malfoy Manor.

"Draco, Draco," he hisses, the sound of his name echoing around the hall and giving him chills, "You have failed."

His father is shaking and his mother sobbing silently, and he forces himself to stay still, to wait, to look ahead and be oblivious, because he can't handle this he can't -

"Yes, my Lord."

"It warrants a punishment."

He forces himself to nod.

"Of death."

The word slithers around his head and he closes his eyes, and then opens them. Far off in the corner, heavily bound, is them. Potter. Weasley. Thomas. Finnigan. Lovegood. Weasley.

They haven't made it far.

The Dark Lord is still hissing, but he barely understands. He doesn't want to listen anymore.

"Please," Draco cuts in, and the Dark Lord gives him a look of disapproval.

"You dare -"

"Please. Just get it - just get it over with."

The Dark Lord's expression goes blank, then he forces a twisted smile. A look of mingled pleasure and curiosity crosses his features.

"How brave," he muses. "How truly brave, Draco - you're actually making me hesitate... But you have failed. And so has your father.

"Any last words, Draco?"

Unexpected and actually merciful but -

He makes use of it.

He looks into his parent's eyes.

Then Hermione, who is shivering, her pale face haggard and tear-streaked with the tips of her brown hair covered in blood.

"I love you."

The Dark Lord laughs - a cold, high laugh that pierces his ears and darkens his vision; he closes his eyes once more and he hears mingled voices shriek, "NO!" but it's coming, it's coming and he can't stop it, and he's repeating the words silently in his head, I love you, I love you and I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, please now, please -

A flash of green light, and -

"Avada Kedavra."

He falls.

* * *

_some people say you can only fall in love once -_

_and forever._

* * *

fin.

* * *

A/N: I don't know what this is. It's supposed to be my entry for The Angst Challenge of Epic Proportions, but I exceeded the word limit. Giving it as a gift to a beautiful catastrophe instead. I got all wordy and incoherent, but... yeah.

For The If You Dare Challenge [4. Reality Bites].

I used three lines of the lovely song Almost Is Never Enough by Ariana Grande feat. Nathan Skyes.

Prompts:

coffee stains, "Why do you even bother?", _hate-love relationships, are overrated, over my dead body, is this how this will end?_

Also for Angela (for shipping this ship hardcore with me, and something to distract you from the Hiddlesconda), Matthew (don't be flattered. You kinda inspired the whole heartbroken thing hahaha) and Wayne (yeah unexpected but you debated about love with me at about 3 AM in the morning... Gave me inspiration lol.)

I realized I can write in a male perspective pretty well :) I guess it's because Draco's my favorite character (Tom Felton's to die for, too)

Reviews most appreciated. :D


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